


baby this town rips the bones from your back.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, M/M, Nightmares, Not much gore but a little gore, Post-Episode: s03e13 Anchors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles wakes up from a nightmare, he almost immediately recognizes that he's simply fallen into another dream.  After all, even if he can (maybe) read the letters on his posters and even if the person next to him has exactly ten fingers, it <i>has</i> to be a dream because there is no way in hell that Derek Hale would be willingly lying next to him in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby this town rips the bones from your back.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I haven't written something dark in a really long time, but we'll entirely blame that on how dark 3B has been so far. Anyways, if some blood and nightmares aren't really your thing, I'd advocate skipping over this particular story. 
> 
> Title comes from Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen.

The moon is gone, the wind is roaring in his ears and Stiles is pretty sure that he's bleeding from more spots than he can count. He's running through the preserve, or some version of it at least and he doesn't know where or how he lost his shirt but what he does know is that no matter what direction he lurches in, tree branches slap at his skin, dragging and tearing until he can feel blood dripping down his arms and his chest. If he could see, he's certain that he'd be leaving bloody footprints behind as well because with every step he takes, a flare of almost blinding pain shoots through the arch of his left foot. There might be a stick or a pebble lodged in there but even though the agony is making his vision white-out at the edges, he keeps running, because what's chasing after him makes the pain shooting through his body look like a mere flick on the wrist. 

It's darkness that's coming but it isn't like the dark he used to be afraid of; it isn't the dark that threatened to swallow him up after his mom died. It feels and sounds like a sentient being, crashing through the trees with pure ease and even though he can hardly see his hands in front of his face, he keeps running, just keeps running because something keeps grabbing at his shoulder and while it might just be a tree branch, he doesn't think that tree branches are supposed to feel like claws. 

His feet are smacking into solid ground, causing the nerves up his left leg to light up like a Christmas tree and he risks a quick glance over his shoulder, only to see nothing but pure darkness stretching in all directions. His head swivels back around and his next step doesn't hit the ground. Instead, stomach lurching, he finds himself falling and even the limited vision he had retained is gone. He's plunging into a void that still seems to be tearing at his skin and desperately, he flails his arms through the darkness, hoping to grasp something, _anything_ but his fingers just keeping falling like the rest of him and-

-he's in his bed, legs kicking frantically at the sheets, heart thudding against the cage of his ribs. There's a little bit of moonlight coming in through his open window and although he still has to really, _really_ squint in order to make out one of his posters, he's about eighty percent sure that it reads exactly as it should. 

Is he awake? 

He can't be, because there's an arm wrapped around his waist. It's not Lydia's; it's too heavy, too thick for that and it's holding him way too tightly. Whoever it belongs to, their hand is splayed on his chest, just over his thudding heart, clutching the fabric of his shirt, which seems to be intact and unripped by phantom branches. Slowly, he places his own hand over the other person's and counts _one two three four five_ fingers. 

Okay. He might be awake. 

“Stiles?” His name comes from right beside his ear, followed by a puff of warm breath. Even laced with sleep, Stiles knows that voice almost as well as he knows his own. Another arm snakes underneath his neck and when the hand attached to it rests against the jut of his collarbone, Stiles silently counts _six seven eight nine ten_. 

But still, even if he can (maybe) read the letters on his posters and even if the person next to him has exactly ten fingers, it _has_ to be a dream because there is no way in hell that Derek Hale would be willingly lying next to him in bed. 

“Stiles, you okay?” This time, the words are accompanied by a nose pressed into the back of Stiles' neck and it feels so, _so_ frustratingly real and Stiles slams his eyes closed again, nails digging into his palm. 

“I'm okay,” he manages to choke out but even as he desperately thinks _no no no please don't,_ Derek uses his arms to roll Stiles over and-

It's just Derek. Stiles had been expecting half of Derek's face to be rotted away, had been so convinced that he'd be rolling over to a blank-eyed corpse drenched in blood but instead, it's just Derek, completely intact. His brow is furrowed and he's not wearing a shirt and when Stiles takes a breath, he can feel the nearly overwhelming heat emanating from Derek's skin. He looks and feels and smells exactly like Derek should and when one of his thumbs brushes over the pulse point on his neck, Stiles just barely manages to bite back a whimper. 

“Derek?” He hardly recognizes his own voice when it finally comes out, all dried up in his throat like he hasn't used it in years. 

“Yeah?”

“Are you real?” Stiles knows that the answer won't necessarily mean anything but it's something he has to do, something he hopelessly clings to. Derek takes the question remarkably well; while his eyebrows are still furrowed, his mouth is set in a straight line. 

“Yes Stiles, I'm real. I promise. Go back to sleep.” His hand runs down along the line of Stiles' throat once more and when he leans in, eyes already closed, Stiles meets him halfway. One of Derek's hands slides around his body to settle upon his lower back, bunching up the fabric of his shirt in his fingers and when Stiles parts his lips, dropping his guard for a few precious moments before the real/not real game begins again, Derek's teeth gently press against his bottom lip. 

“Stiles, I'm sorry,” Derek murmurs against his open mouth, tongue flicking once against his lip and Stiles has just begun to form the words _for what?_ on his tongue when five lighting bolts of pain shoot up his spine. He tries to scream for somebody, anybody but the pain is so all-encompassing that it rips the breath from his lungs and the voice from his throat. Derek is still hovering over him, teeth pressing harder against his lip and when Stiles looks up, he's met with blazing red irises. 

“Sorry,” Derek says again, voice completely flat and emotionless and then his fangs are sinking into Stiles' lip and just as Derek's thumb against his throat felt one hundred percent real, so too does his teeth tearing at Stiles' flesh feel real. There's blood dripping everywhere, covering the inside of his mouth like a coat of paint and when Stiles tries to scream again, part of his jaw cracks loose. Derek's claws are still pressed deep into his back and when he attempts to jerk away like a fish on a hook, they completely destroy some of his vertebrae and- 

-he's sitting up in bed, missing his shirt, screaming as loud as he can while he spews blood onto his sheets. There are birds chirping outside his window, the sun is already up and when he looks down at his hands, they are covered in crimson from where he's nearly bitten through his own lip. 

By the time his dad crashes into the room, looking like he's been awake for days on end, Stiles has screamed himself hoarse. His throat is sandpaper raw and there are rivulets of blood trickling down his chin and tears leaking from his eyes and when he closes them for a moment, plunging himself into darkness, his head is filled with the sound of an alpha werewolf roaring.

“Stiles, Stiles, look at me, please,” his dad says, trying to pull his hands away from where he's clamped them over his ears. He opens his eyes and when his dad lets go of his wrists, he holds his hands out, palms towards Stiles, like he's surrendering. “Stiles, it's okay. Count with me, alright? One, two, three-”

Apparently he isn't done screaming yet.


End file.
